Ser Gerald narrowed his eyes. “If Gelfred is right-and I’m sure he is-he’s got two days of entrenchments behind which to cower. How are you going to get a battle we can win?”
The Red Knight laughed. “De Vrailly sent us a herald. I’m going to challenge him to battle.”
Chapter Eleven
Pennons flapped and flags waved. It was a beautiful late spring in the Brogat.
“I still think that we were better behind our stockades, and bastions,” the archbishop said.
“He challenged us,” Jean de Vrailly said. He was a figure of shining steel, towering over the archbishop who had chosen to wear his state robes of purple and ermine.
“Let him wear himself out against our walls,” the archbishop said, with a certain whine.
“He challenged us,” Jean de Vrailly said again.
“I don’t think that-”
De Vrailly turned his helmeted head. His visor was open and his angelic face seemed to shine from within. “Eminence, you make me regret I ever invited you here to help me rule this realm. I am a knight. The order of knighthood is the only one to which I have ever aspired. The Red Knight has challenged us to battle.”
“And I say-”
“Silence.” De Vrailly spoke sharply, and the archbishop flinched. No one had ever told him to be silent in all his life.
“You think I am a fool who believes in an outdated code. You think that we should cower behind our trenches and build trebuchets, conduct mass killings in Harndon to silence the city and goad our enemies into throwing themselves at our bastions and earthworks. I tell you, Eminence, that you are the fool, and that if we do that, we will find ourselves starving in a ring, a sea, of enemies, none of them contemptible. We lack the manpower to cow Harndon even if we had no foe in the field against us. The Harndoners saw the Queen and the babe. The challenge is just-the Red Knight knows the law of war. But even if it were unjust, we would be fools to do as you suggest. Do you understand me?”
The archbishop was red in the face. He struggled to find words, and finally, he turned his horse, summoned his guard, and rode away.
Ser Eustace d’Aubrichecourt turned his helmeted head. “Well said, Ser Jean.”
Other knights murmured, and while they were doing so, a herald appeared at the far wood line. He rode across the field with one man behind him, cantering easily. He held the traditional green flag that heralds bore in times of war.
He came over the low rise-really, no more than the height of a man-that stood at long bowshot from de Vrailly’s lines. Behind him, horsemen appeared in the wood line.
De Vrailly’s men began to loosen swords in their sheaths and tighten straps and girths.
De Vrailly watched the herald come with nothing in his heart. He had closed himself to his angel since the day after the tournament, and he felt as if he was already dead.
He had been used. Betrayed.
I only wish to die well, he thought. Not a thought to share.
The herald rode down, aiming for de Vrailly’s banner. At this distance, it was plain that the man behind him was Du Corse, on a good riding horse, wearing his arming coat and hose and boots.
L’Isle d’Adam and d’Aubrichecourt came forward and joined de Vrailly.
Du Corse looked grim.
“Welcome back,” de Vrailly said. “Is it too much to hope that you have escaped?”
Du Corse shook his head. “I come on oath-on my word. In exchange for Corcy’s sons.”
De Vrailly smiled a grim smile. “I have them to hand.” He turned to his squire. “Fetch them immediately. I will not be outdone in courtesy by this sell-sword.”
“Hardly a sell-sword,” Du Corse said. “He’s the Queen’s captain-general and the Duke of Thrake. I spoke to him this morning.”
Du Corse pointed across the fields at the approaching army-a small army. In fact, only slightly smaller than de Vrailly’s own.
The herald opened his mouth, but Du Corse silenced him with a glance.
“Ser Gabriel wishes us to know that our King has been badly defeated in Arelat. He offers three choices. If we take ship immediately, he will let us go. If not, he will meet you in single combat, immediately. Or, if neither of these will suffice, he says he will come to you with fire and sword. But he says to us all that in the last case only the true enemy will triumph.”
The enemy were not halting to dress their lines. On the far left, a solid mass of red and steel rode forward. In the centre, another-all in scarlet, with the Royal Standard flying. On the right, a little farther away, a solid body in the red and blue of Harndon, and the checked blue and gold of Occitan.
De Vrailly watched them for as long as his heart could beat ten times.
“This Red Knight is nobly born, then?” de Vrailly asked.
L’Isle d’Adam frowned. “There’s a rumour he’s the old King’s by-blow. But that’s probably someone’s petty hate. He’s the Earl of Westwall’s son.”
Du Corse said, “The Earl of Westwall is dead. The Wild has breached the whole of the north and west. He told me so himself, and I believe him.”
De Vrailly shook his head. “The archbishop would have us believe that it is our duty to cut our way through to Ser Hartmut, and that the Wild is in this case our ally.”
The enemy were not halting yet. They were very quick.
The herald-boldly-spoke up. “I’m to tell you that you have only until he’s in bowshot to decide,” he said.
D’Aubrichecourt spat. “The archbishop would have us believe that the Wild is a fable while also using them as allies,” he said. “Even as they defeat our King in Arelat.” He shook his head in disgust.
De Vrailly paused when his squire brought up the Corcy boys-two young blond squires, Alban through and through.
“Young gentlemen, your father has ransomed you,” he said.
The older, Robert, bent his knee.
The younger, Hamish, stuck his hands in his belt. “You had no right taking us in the first place,” he said.
“Be quiet, little brother.” Robert put out a hand but his small brother, twelve years old, wriggled away.
“It’s dishonourable,” Hamish said quietly.
Out in the field, Long Paw roared an order and the whole line halted. Pages came forward and began to collect horses.
Jean de Vrailly dismounted, too.
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” l’Isle d’Adam said.
De Vrailly walked to the boy who stood without flinching.
He knelt. His voice was not steady. He said, “Sometimes, men make mistakes, child. Terrible, terrible mistakes. All they can do is atone as best they can. I offer you my apologies as a knight and as a man.”
Hamish Corcy bowed low. “Apologies accepted, ser knight! You do me too much honour.”
De Vrailly nodded. Then he went to his horse, and mounted. “Tell the Red Knight I will meet him man to man and horse to horse,” he said.
The herald turned his horse and rode for the enemy.
De Vrailly turned his own horse so that it faced his people. His squire was mounting the two boys on a rouncy.
“Gentlemen,” de Vrailly said, and all badinage stopped. “Whether I win or lose, I propose that we leave the Albans to their own ways and troubles and go to Galle to save the King. And I suggest that you take Du Corse as your commander.”
Du Corse bowed in the saddle. The archbishop made to protest and was silenced by a glance from Du Corse.
De Vrailly pointed to his squire, and armed himself with his favourite lance-a very heavy shaft. But when his squire made to mount with two spares, de Vrailly shook his head.
“No, no. We will run one course, and then-” He shrugged. “Someone will die. Please-stay here with these good gentlemen. In fact, young Jehan-I bid you kneel.” De Vrailly dismounted himself once again.